


Its a tight line (we'll be caught in for a long time)

by agamous (apetala)



Category: Football RPF
Genre: Dirty Talk, Dubious Consent, Hammy rules Perez drools, Heavy rain as a plot device to precipitate funky times, James is secretly a tiny badass, M/M, an overused plot device sorry, bald frenchman coming up next chapter, don't drink and make bad decisions, in this universe Daniela is an ex-wife who shares joint custody, or best decisions, somewhat angsty, word of warning: cheating does happen in this fic if that bothers you
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-16
Updated: 2016-07-10
Packaged: 2018-07-15 11:16:01
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,653
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7220164
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/apetala/pseuds/agamous
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cristiano should have walked out of the room that night. </p><p>He shouldn't have had anyone else in his bed.</p><p>Even if that someone smelt of rain and soon-to-leave.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Español available: [Es una delgada línea (en la que estaremos atrapados por mucho tiempo)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/7382233) by [Deiv17](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Deiv17/pseuds/Deiv17)



It had started out so innocently.

 

Cris just happened to be with the group that night. He knew Zidane wasn’t going to be home until tomorrow morning, so what was the point of staying in? Before Zizou left for the airport, he had gently pulled Cris to him and whispered in his ear to not get in trouble while he was away. He had patted him affectionately on the cheek and walked away. Zizou didn’t need to say another word. Cristiano knew what he meant.

 

Not that Cris minded at all Zidane’s intensity—in fact he loved it in the bedroom. Zizou’s near arctic confidence and competence—the thought of his powerful stride alone gave Cris shivers. His warm, protective consideration after sex when Cris had done well and been obedient—cleaning him up and bringing him down from the high with infinite patience and tenderness. Cris had never felt so intensely cared for. Something about Zizou filled a void in him, a blank space in his heart that was there since he was a boy. Something about Zizou left him vulnerable and achingly soft. He didn’t have to fight, he didn’t have to strive—he only had to obey, and Zizou was fond of whispering to him how good he was, how pliant, how eager to please.

 

Cris had thought tonight would have been a light, easy affair. He was only supposed to be out with his fellow teammates, seeing them drink and have fun with them, and then be the designated driver for a messy Sergio and Toni. Possibly he’d even be done early enough to see his son on Skype and listen to his stories about how he liked his cousins in Portugal.

 

That was how his night was supposed to end.

 

* * *

 

 

Sergio had looked up and cheered after his fifth pint of beer. “Hey, look who’s finally here!”

 

Cristiano looked up, and saw James Rodriguez walking through the door, with his usual shy smile.

 

A warmth bloomed in his chest at the sight of James. He hadn’t been sure if he was going to turn up tonight—James was still a little off from a recent injury—but here he was now, shaking hands and laughing. A soft chuckle that illuminated James’s face from within.

 

It was so easy to watch James and not feel awkward about it. Everyone liked James—he was invariably kind and polite, and it was easy for him to make friends. He had a way of smiling while ducking his head and blushing that made Cris want to enfold him in a hug and protect him from the world. James only wanted people to be happy, and Cris could only be in awe in the face of such a dream.

 

But tonight though dear James was laughing and ordering his drinks, Cristiano thought he saw an odd restraint in James, a perception of shadows in his eyes. When James thought no one was looking, he more often than not was looking down, staring at his hands.

 

Cristiano took a sip of his water, and then made his way over. The noisy crowd around them in the room made his advance effectively silent. As his teammates began to drunkenly sing along to the new Drake single, he sat down in the seat beside James.

 

“Hello James.” He smiled.

 

“Cristiano! I didn’t see you.” James looked up, and whatever was bothering him disappeared as James smiles up at Cristiano, wide dark eyes full of wonder.

 

* * *

 

 

Sergio had teased Cristiano about James for ages. “You know that boy has a serious crush on you.”

 

Cristiano had only rolled his eyes. “Only everyone does. They can’t resist my hair, unlike yours.”

 

“I’m serious here. He has the biggest goofiest smile on his face only when you’re around. It’s clear he idolizes you.”

 

“Jealous much, Ramos? I’m sure one day a new recruit might fall for you one day.”

 

Sergio groaned and threw up his hands on his head. “Okay, keep making fun of me. I’m just saying James practically kisses the ground you walk on. And you need to be more careful about how you act around him. You’re giving him hope, and don’t think people haven’t noticed already.”

 

Cristiano laughed. “Look at that sweet chipmunk face. James isn’t a threat to anyone, least of all Zizou.”

 

Sergio had remained uncharacteristically silent.

 

* * *

 

 

Cristiano didn’t know why that old memory had suddenly popped in his head. But he shook the image away as James chattered on about his new puppy dog.

 

“…And I don’t know, the Frenchie is being fussy lately. Maybe it’s jealous of the new puppy? But now it’s howling outside the bedroom door until I let it in, then it won’t leave until I pick it up and put it in the bed beside me.”

 

Cris snorted. “You’re being too nice. If you don’t show your dog who is boss, then they’re all going to try to sleep in the same bed with you.”

 

James sighed. “But it’s so sad! And I feel bad about leaving it alone now, since I’m making arrangements to move out soon….”

 

Cristiano stilled, a bottled water halfway to his lips. “What?” He turned to stare at James, who paled under his scrutiny.

 

“Oh…I wasn’t….I shouldn’t have said that…”

 

“What is this,” Cris asked “About moving?”

 

James tried to stutter a denial, but under Cris’s stare, he wilted, and lowered his eyes to stare at the counter instead.

 

“It’s that…well, since Zidane’s been here…and I’m really not blaming him at all! It’s just that….I’m not really playing very many games.” James spoke shamefacedly.

 

Cris felt a pang at those words. It was true after all. Zizou had turned around the fortunes of the club in only a few short months, but James had mostly been warming the bench during that time, with Bale and Isco taking his position for many of the games. The fans had even started turning on James, and it wasn’t his fault.

 

“And my agent and I have been discussing it,” James continued, “And he said it may be better to consider the possibility of developing in another club. And last night, after I talked to Daniela…we decided that might be for the best.”

 

Cris didn’t speak. Couldn’t speak. An icy sensation of dread filled the pit of his stomach, snaked out to his limbs. Left him unable to say a word of comfort, of sadness, of argument to try and change James’s mind.

 

He really was very fond of James. Everyone knew that. Sweet, kind-hearted James who was always anxious to say nice words to everyone. When James had transferred to the club, it was so easy to take the new player under his wing. It was breathlessly easy to talk to him, about anything really. James fit into the flow of his arguments and could soon give back as good as he got, even on stupid topics like the temperature of the ocean. And when he made James laugh, the sound of it made the room reverberate with warmth.

 

Cris was very fond of James.

 

And he didn’t want him to go.

 

* * *

 

 

There wasn’t any words possible for Cris after James’s news. Marcelo had somehow burst between them after that stunned minute of silence, and pulled James up to sing along to the next song along with a group of the others. Cris could only sit and toy with his bottled water cap.

 

There wasn’t anything wrong with what James said, after all. James was young. He wasn’t playing enough games, and he could develop further in any club of his choosing. Any club would be lucky to have him. (Though God forbid it be any of their rivals.) He was a very talented player and would go far anywhere. If he had to transfer, then the earlier the better.

 

It was just that

 

Cristiano didn’t want him to go.

 

He didn’t.

 

The thought of a locker room without James, a pitch without James, a room without James’s laughter

 

filled him with utter desolation.

 

He wanted desperately to talk to anyone. But he didn’t want rumors to fly. Sergio, he could trust to keep a secret. But Sergio was currently weaving on his bar seat, trying to show off to some girls on some bullfighting moves.

 

Fuck it.

 

Cris waved the bartender over. “A shot of vodka.”

  

* * *

 

 

That shot of vodka ballooned and had friends over, and soon Cris’s knees were shaky, and his head couldn’t quite keep the trick of balancing straight. It had been years since his last drink of alcohol, and he’d never let himself get beyond the point of buzzed. Being well and truly drunk was a first for him, and the world spun with every little movement of his body.

 

So this was how his teammates felt on weekends out, Cris thought fuzzily. It wasn’t a sensation he personally liked, but he liked the lightness in his heart and throat. He liked the blurriness of the lights. He liked singing along to the Rihanna songs with everyone.

 

He liked staring at James while they all sang together, seeing James flushed pink from the heat of the bar, and giggling when Marcelo slung an arm over his shoulders and leaned so heavily on him that he nearly pushed James off the steps. He liked the shy smiling way that he had of mouthing along to the words while looking down, his teammates shouting out the lyrics almost in his ears.

 

And when James looked up, and saw Cris singing along as well, a plangent line where a sad girl’s voice sang about daring to come to closer, James could only stare back, an inscrutable expression in those dark eyes. And when the look was broken, by a wave of rowdy people brushing past them for drinks, Cris could safely admit to himself, that he liked that too.

 

Somehow, last call was made. Time had flown so quickly, and now people were making goodbye noises and happy farewell cheers, grabbing jackets and the smell of the wet night air coming in through the open door. There was a slight mist of rain outside that Cris could see in the circle of orange light outside, flying crazily like falling dew, like tiny dots veering through the accidental air.

 

Sergio’s hand on his shoulder, warm and somehow pressing. He turned to look at a worried Sergio. He mouthed something loud, asking if Cris was all right, he usually never drank, did he need a ride.

 

Yes, Cris did need a ride home. He felt a sudden stab of guilt, remembering he was the designated, and now Toni and Sergio were both out of a ride.

 

Marcelo luckily didn’t drink (much) and offered them all a ride home. But then the difficulty: He’d already promised two other people a ride as well, and with Cris, Toni and Sergio, there was one person too many for his car.

 

Marcelo asking around, but everyone else seemed to have full cars as well. Luka had a spot, but he was driving the opposite side of town that the others were.

 

Then suddenly Marcelo pounced on a James. “James! How did you get here? Did you come in a car?”

 

James shook his head. “I came in on my motorcycle, actually. But if they don’t mind, someone could ride in the back with me.”

 

Toni immediately paled and begged off. Sergio offered on the spot, a worried expression on his face. But he was so uncoordinated, nearly stumbling into a stool, that Marcelo shushed him. “You’re too drunk, you’re going to flail around and get both of you in the hospital.” Marcelo scolded. “Cris, could you ride home with James? I’m sorry for the inconvenience, but Toni hates bikes and Sergio’s too faded.”

 

Three pair of eyes turned to look at Cris. Marcelo’s beseeching gaze, Sergio looking even more apprehensive than before, as if he wanted to warn Cris about something. And James, with an uncharacteristically neutral expression, something unreadable in his eyes.

 

Cris nodded. “Sure.”

 

And the pivot turned. Sergio was taken arm in arm with Marcelo out the door, Marcelo saying his thanks and Toni adding in a grateful word as well. And the bar was empty now, except for Cris and James. The bar was swollen with quiet, half blinkered lights half awake, half seeing in the gloom.

 

James smiled at him. “Come with me.”

 

And Cris followed.

 

* * *

 

 

Unfortunately, James discovered at the curb that his bike tank was only a quarter full. “I’m sorry,” James apologized. “We’ll have to stop at a gas station to fuel up. I just had enough to get home. Serves me right for being lazy today.”

 

Cris blinked slowly. “It’s late. Three AM isn’t the time to be at a gas station anyways.”

 

He paused. “You could come stay the night at my place? Or vice versa. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to inconvenience anyone.”

 

James laughed. “It’s really no trouble. And it was nice to see you relax for once with us.”

 

Riding on a back of a motorbike was also a new experience for Cris. “You have to stick close, and lean with me so we don’t lose balance on the bike.” James explained. “Just hang on tight. It might feel strange, but I won’t let us fall over.”

 

Cris gingerly balanced on the back—he wasn’t some tiny giggly girl, he was a full grown man and he felt like an ox balancing on the seat, especially next to James’s compact frame. He leaned back, his feet finding the place to rest. He was uncomfortably aware of James between his thighs, his warm solid back.

 

“You can’t be seated that high, or you’re definitely going to fall off.” James chuckled. “Just lean in and forward, pull your knees in, and don’t be shy about holding on.” He arranged Cris’s rather unsteady arms around his torso in a tight grasp.

 

“The press would kill us if they ever saw us.” muttered Cris to James’s shoulder.

 

“It’s all right.” James replied with a smile. “Just hold on.”

 

James brought his bike alive in a roar, and with a kick, they were off on the road.

 

* * *

 

 

Being on the bike was honestly a little frightening at first—James was clearly experienced with his bike, and took corners with what seemed to Cris with far too much speed.  
  
But once they were out of the small cobblestoned streets and on the wider roads, Cris slowly relaxed. The night air was refreshingly cool against his face, and being in the open air somehow awoke him afresh to the beauty of Madrid. He could look at the street names written on the corners along with a painted image—a woman swimming in a river of reeds, a precious two-handled vase, a grave Holy Virgin and infant. Every now and then they would drive into a square, gracious and wide, and pass street vendors throwing up lit up LED toys that flew into the sky squeaking, like strange comets. Old, baroque building fronts melting with botanical flourishes and bright paint. Tall finance buildings with pedestrian bridges floating above their heads like arcs in the sky. And finally the outskirts of the city, where grass and bright poppies shivered in their wake.

 

* * *

 

 

They were approaching Cris’s house, and he was digging around for his gate key when the skies suddenly decided to open, and the faint misty rain that had dewed them throughout their ride turned into a torrential fall.

 

“Where did all this water come from?!” Cris shouted.

 

“I don’t know, but hurry please!” James shouted back, only more politely. He stopped at the gate to wait for Cris to dig into his pockets.

 

He finally found it, and the gate opened for them. James made a movement as if to turn around and go back, but Cris stopped him, shouting “Don’t be ridiculous! You can’t drive back in this rain! Hurry up and get in!”

 

After a moment’s hesitation, James obeyed, and the two of them drove up hurriedly to the garages, where James parked his soaked bike. Then the two of them rushed up the driveway to the front door, which luckily Cris was ready for with his key this time.

 

He pushed the door open, and the quiet hit them both. Cris flicked on the lights, and James, who was scraping his shoes on the mat, whispered. “I’d hate to wake anyone up.”

 

Cris shook his head. “No one’s here tonight. My parents and my son are visiting family back in Madeira.”

 

They dug up guest towels in the bathroom, and began to towel off the rain. Cris ushered James into a bedroom. “You can sleep here tonight, it’s got everything ready for guests already…” Cris trailed off as he considered James’s soaked clothes. “Wait.”

 

Leaving James, he made his way back to his quarters. He rifled through his closet, trying to find clothes that could fit James somehow. He had lost some weight recently, but his build was still far broader and taller than him. He gave up, and dug out some comfortable sweats as well as an ancient t-shirt. Hopefully James wouldn’t drown in them.

 

On his way back, Cris stopped in the corridor, a long moment to breathe, and think.

 

He was finally home. It was quite a night, and he should have been basking in the peace of his own bed, finally, after such a night.

 

And yet he was restless.

 

Holding a bundle of clothes for someone who would be gone in the morning. Someone who would be gone by the next transfer window.

 

Someone who wanted to leave.

 

Cris entered the guest bedroom, as James was shrugging out of his jacket, seated on the bed. “Oh you’re back.” James smiled. “Sorry for getting these covers dirty…”

 

“I don’t want you to leave.” Cris said.

 

James blinked at him, smile fading.

 

There was a silence for a moment. Two.

 

“I don’t want to go either.” James said quietly.

 

“Then don’t.” Cris said. “I want you to stay.”

 

James only looked at him.

 

“I can talk to Zidane. Other important people. They can see to it that you participate in more games. That you’re properly developed. Here.”

 

James now smiled, but one that was sad. “The president doesn’t really like me. And our coach doesn’t really either.”

 

Cris felt his stomach drop, a void in him. He could only stare.

 

James went on. “You didn’t know?” He looked at Cris’s stunned face. “You really didn’t know?” He added, with a note of wonder.

 

“Cristiano…I’ve always liked you. Admired you, always, ever since I was young. But since I’ve been here…you’ve been nothing but kind and wonderful to me. You’ve been my greatest friend here. And I know,” James swallowed “That to you I am a friend. That you’re with another man now.”

 

“But I’ve been in love with you for the whole time I’ve been here.” James finished. “You’re so amazing…no one could help falling for you. And I mean…everyone knew. I think Zidane did too. And…I don’t mean to talk badly of him, but I think that’s why I haven’t played in so long. He knew. And I thought you did too, and simply didn’t want to embarrass me. Because you didn’t feel that way about me.”

 

There was a dull roar in Cris’s ears. He didn’t. He couldn’t. He couldn’t believe Zizou could do such a thing.

 

He couldn’t.

 

His head was still wavy and he couldn’t quite concentrate on James’s face. Details came in crystal clear but not the whole scene. James’s eyes that wouldn’t meet Cris’s, staring at his feet now. His hands gripping the covers so tightly that his fingers were white. His shoulders hunched over, as if trying to hide, trying to disappear faster than he was, far from Cris.

 

His feet seemed to move outside of his control. Walking slowly to James, who remained silent, and wouldn’t look up. He knelt down on his knees, in front of James, the movement loud as thunder in the room, tensing tighter the invisible heaviness in the air. Cris found it strangely difficult to breathe.

 

He brought his hands up to cup James’s face. At the gentle brush of his hands, James inhaled sharply, and looked up. His eyes searched Cris’s face, for what, Cris didn’t know. Sincerity? Violence?

 

James’s mouth was unconsciously open now, full lips tender in confusion, and wet. Cris saw details with clarity but couldn’t quite string them together into a conclusion, an action.

 

“Please stay.” He said, instead, a raspy whisper.

 

James bit his lip. Silent. And then replied.

 

“Make me.”

 

So Cris leaned forward, and with heavy arms, he drew James into an hug, tightly hugging James to him, trying to pour all his emotions into that clasp of arms, squeeze out of James chest all those treacherous words.

 

If Cris hadn’t looked down at James’s face, as he began to let go, let James lean back from a hug that he hadn’t responded to, he might have been able to leave the room that night. With a heavy heart, true, and with a sense of failure. And yet without committing actions that would have been irretrievable, that would have broken the fragile balance that his life walked on.

 

But he was a little dizzy, he was grieving more than a little, and he wanted James to stay more than anything else. So he glanced down to look at James’s face, now very close to his.

 

And James was looking up at him, expression still and dim. Except there was a question in his eyes, locked on Cris’s eyes.

 

Cris breathed, in and out, standing on the edge of a terrible precipice.

 

James didn’t withdraw, and he didn’t advance either. He only waited.

 

Cris shivered, minutely, but the movement was like an ocean wave in the space between them. He felt his heart cleave into two, the cleanest of earthquakes—Zizou in the bed of the past and the future, James in his arms on tonight’s bed.

 

And he could only surrender. He could only lean forward, slowly, and to press the lightest of kisses, hesitant and chaste on James’s mouth, eyes open.

 

James didn’t ask if Cris was sure, if he knew what he was doing. He didn’t have to.

 

* * *

 

 

Afterwards, Cris could really only remember snapshots of the night. The scent of the sheets that his face was pressed on, clean and floral as if there was petals strewn on the linens. The soft warmth of the junction of James’s neck and shoulder, the way it resisted the bite of Cris’s teeth. James’s hands, always gentle, skimming down the side of Cris’s thighs, the raspy sound of it underneath the sound of Cris’s harsh breathing.

 

The way Cris couldn’t help arching when James finally breached him, his heavy cock that was always admired and whispered over in the locker room that was actually sinking into him, inch by terrible inch, leaving him helpless against the onslaught. The way James held down his wrists, gave him a single apologetic kiss. The last few inches leaving Cris dizzy, gulping for air as he pressed his head back on the sheets in an unconscious attempt to escape.

 

The sound of wet in the air. Whimpers that Cris slowly realized were from his own throat, as each thrust inside him ground him unbearably full and forced the breath from his chest.

 

Then, after. James soothing the muscles of his thighs with kisses that skimmed over. Getting up to throw away the condom, the muffled sound of it in the bathroom. Coming back, climbing back into the bed, next to him. And Cris opening his arms to let James in a loose embrace, two tired heads resting together on the pillow. Not quite in agreement, but at least in truce.

 

At least until the dawn gleamed blue in the windows, and until they woke up, in the daylight. But until then, they slept, dreaming of the jasmine that scented the bedsheets.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song mood for the chapter [https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=48EniszezzE]()


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dub-con warning for this chapter fyi.

Cristiano walked into the locker room, nearly at the last possible moment. Only a couple people remained inside, the rest having already gone out to the pitch for training. Zidane hated it when people were late.

 

No one noticed Cristiano’s slight limp, as he walked over to his locker space.

 

But when he took a deep breath, as if to steady himself, and pulled off his shirt to change,

 

Everyone noticed him then.

 

Whip lashes patterned his back in neat thin marks, across his shoulders and upper back. Bruises blooming on his arms and thighs in deep purples and smudged blues. Under scrutiny, his wrists and ankles were clearly chafed red from rope burns.

 

The room was deathly silent, except for the sound of Cristiano changing into his kit, staring ahead in the middle distance as if to avoid meeting anyone’s eyes. He put on his shoes, closed the locker door, and strode past everyone, including a wide eyed Sergio who tried to catch his arm, clearly worried.

 

Sergio was still staring at Cristiano’s back at the exitway, unaware of the whispers that surged in the room behind Cristiano.

 

Gareth, who had watched the whole scene frozen, seated on his bench, had hardly blinked while Cristiano was still changing out of his clothes. Now, clearly out of sorts, he turned to murmur to Isco. “Slut.”

 

Unfortunately for Gareth, Sergio heard.

 

Marcelo dashed to get between Sergio as soon as he heard Bale’s words, and so did the others once Sergio grabbed Gareth by the shoulders and slammed him back on a locker. Sergio still landed a punch before strong arms peeled him off Gareth, and Marcelo held Sergio’s face firmly to face him. “Ramos! Look at me, take a deep breath. You need to calm down.”

 

Sergio struggled against the arms that locked him still, a furious flush mottling his face and neck. Marcelo shook him. “Don’t. Do. This. You’re the team captain, for fuck’s sake!”

 

At those words, Sergio closed his eyes shut, breathing in and out.

 

Sergio could hear Bale, spitting mad, shouting in English about letting him go so they could fight fair.

 

Sergio nodded, a tight single movement of his head. “Let me go.”

 

Marcelo looked into his face for a long moment. He finally nodded, and the guys who were holding him back let him loose.

 

Sergio barreled past everyone, to the entranceway the opposite way Cristiano left, leaving the locker room in an uproar.

 

* * *

 

 

When Cris woke up yesterday morning, James was gone.

 

The sheets where he was were flattened, the only physical sign James had ever been here in the room. Only Cris’s clothes were left scattered on the floor.

 

But when he turned his face to the pillow, he could still smell James’s scent lingering on the covers. His skin still smelt like James, for Christ’s sake.

 

And when he tried to sit up, to get up off the bed, the sudden movement caused a sharp jolt of pain between his hips. He was sore everywhere, and his head was aching terribly, but he was especially tender at the junction of his legs.

 

Cris tried to think. What was to be done?

 

He had to call his family in Portugal, apologize for missing last night’s call. He had to strip the bed linens and wash them. He had to take a shower and clean up what he could. He had to drink water and take an Ibuprofen, as well as his breakfast.

 

He had to call Zizou.

 

At the thought of that, Cris’s heart grew cold, and he stared up at the ceiling.

 

Oh shit.

 

Oh, shit.

 

He couldn’t move for the dread. He didn’t want to leave this bed, and start the day. A day of cleaning up. A day of making amends.

 

The day when Zizou found out.

 

How utterly idiotic could he have been? Taking James to his bed last night? They hadn’t even exchanged words after they started. James wasn’t going to stay because Cris had stupidly opened his legs for him.

 

Cris sighed, the sound reverberating strangely in the empty room.

 

His heart was still in turmoil, and only half of it was because of Zizou. His boyfriend. The man he was with for the past five months.

 

He still wanted James to stay.

 

James with the steady hands last night, gently placed on his face when Cris was nearly desperate, calming him down. The dark eyes, somehow even bigger in the dim light of the room, Cris mesmerized by the soft sweep of his lashes.

 

* * *

 

 

 

Sergio was on his way over to Cristiano’s house, when he got a call from him.

 

The sun was already heartlessly brilliant at 11 AM, and even Sergio’s darkest sunglasses couldn’t prevent the light from piercing his poor head and sanding it down to a gritty, painful nub of his former mind. Even looking at things too quickly made him nauseous.

 

When he had peered out of Marcelo’s car last night, and seen the heavy rain blanketing Madrid, an ominous thought sat in his chest.

 

There was no way James could drive out in that rain. There was no way that Cristiano, his friend, would have let him.

 

Sergio groaned out loud, and Marcelo had scolded him again for scaring him with that sound out of nowhere, he sounded like a dying man for heaven’s sake.

 

While everyone might make fun of Sergio for not being the brightest lightbulb in the bunch, Sergio knew a few things, okay.

 

One: No matter what Cristiano said, James was crushing hard on him like a middle school girl.

 

Two: No matter what Cristiano said, he totally had a soft spot for James too.

 

Three: Throw in alcohol, and very, very bad decisions were inevitable. Especially when someone’s significant other was out of town.

 

Four: If anything happened, like significant happenings with quotation marks in the air, Zidane was going to work the whole team like dogs for like, forever.

 

Five: If anything happened, Cristiano would be sad.

 

So when Sergio got a call, and saw the number, he sighed.

 

“Cris.” He said, picking up.

 

“Sergio.” Cristiano sounded tired. “How are you feeling this morning?”

 

“Like someone ran a truck over my head.” Sergio said, cautiously. “How are you feeling this morning?”

 

A pause. “Not…the best.”

 

Sergio shook his head. Of course.

 

“Cris I never get to say this, but, you’re an idiot.”

 

Cristiano huffed, shortly. “However did you know.”

 

“Also, I just want to say, I TOLD YOU SO.”

 

“Shut up Ramos. Are you coming over?”

 

“I’m almost there, princess. Pulling up at your driveway right now.”

 

* * *

 

 

They both downed water in the cool of the dining room, lost in their thoughts.

 

Sergio broke the silence first, putting down his second bottled water. “So…is James still here?”

 

Cristiano shook his head. “He left before I woke up. Probably for the best. I don’t know what we could have said to each other.”

 

“Cris. I told you. I TOLD YOU. But no, you were so sure that he didn’t have feelings for you. And what do you do? You get shitfaced and you take him home with you.”

 

“Shut up, okay?” Cristiano said. “He told me he was thinking about leaving Real.”

  
“…What?”

 

“He’s not getting to play enough games here. He’s making plans to move. His agent, his ex-wife, they agree that he’s better off somewhere else.”

 

“Well shit.” Sergio breathed.

 

“Yeah, it’s not good. And I just…I drank too much and things got carried away.” Cristiano leaned his head against the marble counter.

 

“So…what are you gonna do?”

 

“I don’t know what to do. Zizou…I don’t know how he’s going to take this. Apparently James thinks he’s been benching him deliberately because Zizou knew about how he felt about me. That he was sabotaging James.”

 

Sergio nodded. “Well, yeah. I mean, there’s Perez too, and our new formation. But if you think Zidane didn’t know…you might be stupid, but he isn’t.”

 

“If this is true…” Cristiano shook his head. “I don’t know what to do.”

 

Sergio sighed. “Well, there’s no way you can keep this from him. Everyone knows James and you left together last night. Once he hears that, he’ll figure out the rest.”

 

Cristiano looked so tired that Sergio relented. “You know I have your back, right? If Zidane hurts you, or anything, I’ll make sure to run him over in my car and blame it on my hangover.”

 

Cristiano huffed. “Just blame it on your regular driving, you’re a menace to public safety no matter what.”

 

And then added “Thanks.”

 

* * *

 

 

When Cris finally mustered up the courage to send Zizou a text, he tapped out a short message.

 

_We need to talk, when are you free?_

Zizou replied, thirty minutes later when Cris was eating a beleated brunch. He pulled out his phone and read his reply.

 

_6 PM._

And shortly after,

 

_Don’t come if you’re not sure this is what you want._

 

* * *

 

 

Cris didn’t reply. He wrote short messages saying _yes_ and _of course_ and _yes always_. He erased them.

 

He also wrote long messages, to the general point of _I can’t believe you_ and _did you deliberately bench James because of me_. He also erased them.

 

He wrote one short message, saying _we’re done_.

 

After five minutes of staring at the message, he also erased it.

 

* * *

 

 

 

At 5:55 PM, he arrived in front of Zizou’s house. He told himself it was just to talk to him. Just to clear the air.

 

At 5:57 PM he turned the engine on, to drive away and leave. What was there to be said? _I fucked up_ and _I sabotaged other people_ and _sorry_ ’s that weren’t ever going to get at the heart of the matter.

 

At 5:58 PM he turned the car engine off.

 

At 5:59 PM he got out of the car, and slowly walked up the steps.

 

Zidane hated it when people were late.

 

* * *

 

 

 

The door was unlocked. Cris didn’t even have to use his key.

 

He opened the door, and looked in the entry hall.

 

He didn’t see anyone at home, but he knew Zizou. If he made an appointment with someone, you could trust him to keep it.

 

Toeing off his shoes, Cris walked in through the living room.

 

Made his way through a hallway.

 

Opened the door to Zizou’s bedroom.

 

And there he was.

 

Zidane was seated in his favorite chair, legs crossed, taking a sip of his favorite drink.

 

He looked relaxed, but Cris knew better than to think that.

  
Zidane glanced up at Cris. He even looked slightly amused.

 

Cris could only swallow under that gaze. That gaze that made him nearly weak at the knees. Made him want to kneel, and beg for forgiveness.

 

God, he really was an idiot. Thinking he could walk in and out with only talking.

 

Zizou wasn’t going to let him, and it was as easy as that.

 

Zidane had been watching him the whole time, letting the silence grow heavier, seeing Cris grow more and more uncertain. There was a definite smile of amusement now on Zidane’s lips.

 

“Cris.” He said. “I will say this one last time. If this isn’t what you want, then leave.”

 

Cris couldn’t speak. But he had to. Zizou wanted him to.

 

“I want to stay.” He said, shaking.

 

“All right.” Zidane’s voice was gentle. “On your knees then.”

 

* * *

 

 

Cris softly and quietly got on his knees, and knelt in the doorway, in front of Zidane. He took another swallow of his glass, eyes boring holes on Cris.

 

“Bring me my crop, in your mouth. On your hands and knees.”

 

Cris made his way to the chest in front of the bed, and opened it. Gingerly leaning in, he bit down on the middle of a long leather crop, Zizou’s favorite. The weight of it was awkward in his mouth, but he managed to keep it in place, making his way over to Zizou.

 

Zidane hummed, a sound of vague appreciation. He however, didn’t reach down to take it from Cris, whose jaws were now aching from the effort.

 

“Do you want this?” Zidane asked him.

 

Cris nodded.

 

“I’m not very impressed right now. I thought my favorite toy was happy with what he got. But I suppose you’re such a cock hungry slut that even two days was too long for you. You found the closest boy with the biggest dick and begged him to give it to you, didn’t you?”

 

Cris swallowed. A surge of temper in his chest.

 

“No, none of that right now. Yes or no. And use your head.”

 

Cris nodded once, slowly.

 

“Good. I like it when you’re being honest.” Zidane leaned back to pick up his glass.

 

“Take off your clothes. Quickly now. Lets see if your boy left any marks.”

 

Cris knew better, unbuttoning his shirt and undoing his slacks and pulling off his briefs, to take the crop out of his mouth, or to speak. He left his clothes in a neatly folded stack to the side—Zidane had taught him that. He got back on his knees once he was done.

 

Zidane looked him over, slowly. “Hm. Not even a bruise. You couldn’t have enjoyed it very much. Poor little thing. Was he gentle? Did he have you on your back? Must have been a disappointing night.”

 

Zidane took the crop out of Cris’s mouth, finally, and he coughed the hoarseness out of his throat before answering.

 

“His cock wasn’t disappointing.” His response surged out of him from nowhere.

 

Zidane stared at him for a long, hard moment, until Cris dropped his eyes. Then Zidane tsked, softly, hand running down the crop in his hands.

 

* * *

 

 

Cris could only last so long before he sagged against his restraints, tight ropes that chafed mercilessly at his sore wrists.

 

He was in the headspace, and he could only moan breathily with every lash of the crop, the sharp sting cleansing his mind of anything else.

 

Nothing else but Zidane, with eyes like steel, and still fully dressed in his suit. He hadn’t even broken a sweat.

 

“Please.” He murmured, the sound so soft that the creaking of the ropes nearly obscured it. But Zidane heard him.

 

“Please, what?” Zidane asked smoothly. “Be more precise.” And with that he added another lash, a long one biting across Cris’s upper back. Cris arched into it, mouth falling open.

 

“Please, papi.” Cris breathed. “Please. I want you so much. I want you in me.”

 

“Nice.” Zidane smiled. “But you can do better.”

 

Cris whined in his throat, as he heard Zidane go through the chest for a new toy. His body sang, his head was buzzing and he felt light as air. He was utterly Zizou’s and he only wanted to please, he only wanted Zizou’s focus.

 

Cris heard the cat of nine tails before he felt it, a heavy thud against his skin, the hurt of it changing into something that made his cock ache.

 

“When you come in to practice tomorrow,” Zizou whispered in his ear. “You’ll have so many pretty marks to show to your teammates. Then they’ll all know.”

 

Another powerful smack, now across his ass, making Cris jump, as well as his cock.

 

“They’ll know how you’ll spread your legs for any man that even looks at you. They’ll know how easy it is to take you, any time they please. How easy it is to bend you over and fuck you raw. How much your body will love it, no matter how much you scream.”

 

“And they’ll know.” Zizou bit down on Cris’s ear, hard, making him gasp. “That no one but me is allowed to do that to you.”

 

“Fuck, papi, please. _Please_. I’ll make it so good for you, just let me touch you, anything you want, anywhere.” Cris begged, hardly aware he was speaking. “I want you, I want you so bad, you can have anything, everything, just please, fuck me, please--”

 

Cris felt Zidane’s fingers in hair, and before he could say another word, his head was yanked down, forcing him in an awkward bend. Zidane had undone the zip of his trousers, and Cris could see the bulge of his cock against the fabric.

 

“Well. Since you asked so nicely. You’d better get me started with your mouth first.”

 

* * *

 

 

Cris screamed when Zidane finally, finally plunged his cock into his aching ass, a brutal thrust inside that edged on the line of too-much, jostling against sore muscles that had been so recently breached.

 

But the pressure and ache was just perfect, and Cris could only sob as Zidane took him mercilessly, still fully dressed in his tailored suit while Cris thrashed and moaned underneath him, begging for more.

 

“Is this what you needed?” Zidane hissed. “Is this enough for you, being used like a whore? I should leave you tied up in my bedroom and keep you for a fucktoy. I’d take you whenever I pleased. You’d be completely helpless, ready for anyone passing by to fuck you.”

 

Cris couldn’t speak now, arched against him, letting him have everything. The perfect friction of Zizou’s cock against the spot that made him speechless, unable to resist.

 

When Cristiano did come, it was a tidal wave that bowled him over, made him so dizzy that he saw spots, ears ringing, screaming Zizou’s name as he spilled all over the floor.

 

Zidane’s response was to bend him even further in half, thrusting into him ever faster, the sensation too much for his sensitive nerves, Cristiano shivering as he endured, jaw clenched.

 

Cristiano felt a flood of wet heat inside, Zidane coming silently in him. When he had finished, he withdrew, neatly, come spilling out of Cristiano’s hole with him.

 

Cristiano sighed, and bowed his head.

 

His head was clear as water, taking in the sound of Zidane undoing his restraints, his murmurs to Cristiano of how well he had done. And this Cristiano understood, and accepted.

 

But for the first time, after a night with Zizou, his heart was still heavy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A disclaimer that I have hardly any knowledge of the BDSM community, and any inaccuracies are my fault. 
> 
> Cris and Zidane have already negotiated their interests and limits when they first got together. Zidane does ask general consent at the beginning but should have touched base with Cris first before doing specific things, especially since their dynamic is off from Cris's infidelity. 
> 
> Cris is more of a switch here, but when he's a sub he's the brattiest of them all.
> 
>  
> 
> Song mood for the chapter [https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BAQtIFtM250]()


	3. Chapter 3

When James opened his front door, Sergio barreled through, fists curling into James’s shirt and shoving him against the wall. Hard.

 

“You little shit.” Sergio emphasized each word with deathly calm. His eyes bored into James’s, pushing him further against the wall.

 

James didn’t reply, only leaning his head back to stare at Sergio. There was a long pause.

 

“He told you.” James said, not moving.

 

“He didn’t have to. Everyone knows. Even our coach knows.” Sergio bit out.

 

James’s eyes widened. “Is Cristiano all right?”

 

“Oh you wouldn’t know, hiding in your house instead of gong to practice. Maybe if you went you could have seen Cris coming in with fucking bruises and rope burns everywhere. He could barely walk straight. And he still came in.”

 

James was now very, very still.

 

Sergio went on. “What the fuck do you have to offer him? Hm? Other than running with your tail between your legs when his boyfriend comes back to town?”

 

Suddenly James broke out of Sergio’s grip, a swift brutal motion that ended in a heave, Sergio staggering back to the floor in surprise. James stood over him, voice low and still, jaw clenched so hard the sinews of his neck bulged.

 

“You let him walk to the pitch like that? You let him walk back to _him_ like that?”

 

Sergio shook his head, trying to shake out the dizziness. “Cris chose to, you idiot. He chose him over you. And if you were even a quarter of a man, you’d leave Madrid as soon as possible. You’ve done enough.”

 

Before the words fully left his mouth, James turned, and punched the door so hard the wood frame shuddered in its hinges. He turned back to face Sergio, starting to get back up, a fury so potent that Sergio couldn’t even touch.

 

“If you were even a quarter of his friend, you wouldn’t let a man who forced him and hurt him breathe for even another day.”

 

Sergio laughed, an ugly edge to the sound. “I’m sorry, who forced who? You knew Cris was already with someone. You knew Cris had far too much to drink that night. You knew Cris was fond of you. From where I’m standing, Zidane isn’t the only one who took advantage of Cris.”

 

For the first time in the doorway, Sergio saw James’s demeanor break, distress shattering his face.

 

“That wasn’t right of me.” James whispered. “Believe me, I know. I thought…I don’t know what I was thinking. But I would never hurt Cristiano. I would never—“ A flash of rage passed over his features, then smoothed. “I would never force him to be mine. Humiliate him in front of everyone.”

 

Sergio growled. “You should have thought of that before you got him in trouble with our coach.”

 

James’s jaw tightened, as he lifted his chin up slightly. “Is Cristiano in trouble?”

 

“What do you even care about it? You had your one night stand already. Are you a dog, sniffing around to wait for more?”

 

“You come here, to my house, and attack me, because you call yourself his friend.” James gritted out. “But when a powerful man uses his body, you find it convenient to look away when your career is on the line.”

 

Sergio could vaguely hear a dull roaring in his ears, a heaviness in his head, a coiling of tension in his core that could only be unfurling in the acceleration of his closed fists, the heavy meaty sound of a punch against James’s face. It wasn’t until they were scrabbling against the floor, that Sergio realized the roaring sound was coming from him.

 

* * *

 

 

Walking up the driveway felt like a mile. During practice, Cris had limbered up some and had ignored the pain. It was easy to, when his teammates kept looking at him uneasily, and trying not to show how unsettled they were from Sergio and James’s absence, as well as their coach being unusually severe.

 

But driving back in his car, his muscles had stiffened up again. The quiet had made it impossible to focus his thoughts like usual. He could feel every ache in his body—the burning of his wrists, the stinging across his back, the dull throb every time he shifted wrong in his seat.

 

He could still feel the pain of being breached, twice.

 

He couldn’t help hissing as he straightened up out of the seat. The limp seemed worse, walking up to his front door, then when he had walked out of it this morning.

 

He took the last turn to face his doorway.

 

Somehow, Cris wasn’t even surprised to find James there.

 

He was waiting for him, cross legged against the entryway wall. Face grave. He looked up to see Cris, standing silently before him. James didn’t look surprised either.

 

They stared at each other for a long, long moment. The hot Iberian sun warming the air, Cris’s skin. The restless hum of cicadas filling the lake of air around them.

 

Cris slowly started walking towards the door, at the same time James stood up.  
  
There wasn’t a need for words, and words wasn’t possible right then. Cris merely unlocked his front door, barely registering the low grate of his key for the breathless feeling of the presence the man standing beside him. Cris could feel James’s eyes resting on him, but he couldn’t quite puzzle out the emotion behind the gaze. Disappointment? Regret?

 

Cris opened the door, and James followed after him, their footsteps echoing in the empty house.

 

Cris walked into the kitchen, and opened the fridge door, pulling out a jug of infused water. “Do you want a glass?” He asked.

 

James shook his head no.

 

Cris shrugged and poured himself a cup.

 

Cris could have said so many things.

 

He could have asked where James had gone after that night, and why he had left Cris asleep in that bed like he was a thief.

 

He could have told him where Cris had gone to the night after James.

 

He could have asked him to politely leave.

 

What came out was instead more neutral than Cris intended. “You weren’t at practice today.”

 

“Neither was Sergio.”

 

“…Is that what happened to your face?”

 

James folded his arms. His gaze scanned Cris slowly, stopping at his wrists that were still chafed red. “What happened to you?”

 

Cris grunted. “I talked with Zizou.”

 

It was a microtwitch, but Cris caught the minute flinch of James as he mentioned Zidane.

 

“…It wasn’t against my will. I chose to visit him.” Cris said, gently.

 

Another long silence, one that floated through the shaded cool of the house.

 

“Why are you telling me this?” James’s voice was steady, but his fingers, gripping his arms were bone white.

 

“I don’t want you to try finding him, for one. Sergio doesn’t hold grudges for long, but Zizou. He remembers.”

 

“I remember too.” James replied softly.

 

Another pause, James’s voice even softer.

 

“Do you want me to forget?”

 

* * *

  

And Cris, still reeling from a hard day of practice, pricking all over with memories—the way Bale with a blackened eye glared at him, Sergio not replying to his messages, Toni and his frankly frightened expression after Zizou harshly reprimanded him for sloppy footwork—

 

\--Zizou and Cris last night. Zizou feeding Cris, pliant and tender, still lying on the same sheets he had spilled all over only ten minutes earlier. Zizou placing bites of plum on Cris’s swollen mouth, Cris with barely enough energy to part his lips to accept the sweet-sour taste.

 

“I want him to stay.” Cris saying suddenly. Zizou after a long pause, barely inclining his head in a nod.

 

“I know you do.” Zidane said, voice low and rumbling. Like a thunderstorm, barely banked, but yet Cris knew better, that there was a man with a deep, unspoken affection for him underneath the power, the strength, the ruthlessness.

 

“But,” He added. “I will not tolerate him and you together again.”

 

Cris closed his eyes.

 

He swallowed, a deep bluish-purple clot of fruit.

 

“I don’t know if I can keep that promise.” Those quiet words echoed, rippled through the sheets scented of sex, made the whips hanging on the wall shudder.

 

Zizou, to his credit, only smiled, a tender thing. Ran a hand through Cris’s hair, thumb stroking a small comforting touch to his temple.

 

“Cris, you only have to choose. That’s all.”

 

“I don’t want to have to choose.”

 

Another slice of plum at his lips, only Zidane didn’t wait for Cris to bite into it. It traced the lines of his lips, leaving a dark stain. Then an insistent press opened his lips, and Zidane watched Cris obediently open to take the slice, filling his mouth obscenely.

 

“I’ll always want you.” Cris could hear for the first time the threads of tight emotion behind his words. Zizou, as his wont, meant far more than what he said, though he would never admit it. For that was the kind of man he was,

 

the man that Cris loved.

 

“But if you climb into bed with that boy again, I’m afraid the door to this house must be shut behind you.”

 

“Did you keep him on the bench deliberately? Because of me?” Cris whispered.

 

Zidane’s thumb ran down the side of Cris’s face, softly tracing the line of his cheekbones to his jaw.

 

“There are many reasons for what I did.” Zidane said, voice a rough burr.

 

“And there will be many reasons for what you choose to do next.” Zidane continued, leaning in slowly, to kiss the plum stain from Cris’s mouth. “All I ask is that you choose wisely.”

 

* * *

 

 

There was Zizou.

 

And then there was also James.

 

Sweet, kind, laughing James. Somehow so many of his memories of James was of him laughing. Him and sunlight somehow seemed twined in his recollections.

 

A bus ride back home late at night, after a victorious game. Everyone else settled in their seats, either lightly sleeping or chattering about various topics. James and Cris, tucked next to each other, in a clump of talkers, and the subject turning to first kisses.

 

“When was your first kiss?” Marcelo asked James, the group still tittering after Sergio’s story about how his first kiss was his best friends mom.

 

James blushed, but with encouragement, began to speak. “It wasn’t anything much. It was so quick...”

 

Everyone hooted at his words. “Oh, it was quick huh? Did she even have a good time?”

 

“No, it wasn’t like that.” James replied in exasperation. “I was eight and she was like ten. She just pecked me on the lips and said I was her boyfriend now. Everyone in my grade made fun of me.”

 

People aww-ed and patted James on the shoulders. “Can’t believe this little babyface has even kissed.” someone chortled.

 

Marcelo poked Cris in the shoulder. “What about you, Cris? What was your first kiss like?”

 

Cris saw that James was still blushing, and an idea popped into his head. “Well,” he said, with a grin illuminating his face. “It really needs to be demonstrated.”

 

He turned to James. “Close your eyes.”

 

Everyone around them began to whoop. James looked back at Cris with wide surprised eyes, who only smiled back in what he hoped was his most innocent expression. James didn’t look convinced, but he did close his eyes.

 

James with eyes closed looked…oddly peaceful. He didn’t scrunch his face up, or grimace. He didn’t look angelically innocent either. He was only James, waiting, with still lashes. It gave Cris pause, but only for a second.

 

Cris placed a hand on James’s cheek, very softly, his fingers barely skimming the skin. “She was a sister of a camp friend. So she invited me to her house when no one else was home, so I was very nervous. About thirteen at the time. We get on her bed, and she tells me to close my eyes, so I do.”

 

Cris leaned closer, into James’s space, so close that he could feel James’s breath against his nose. “She leans in like this…”

 

Another breath, this one long and soft.

“And she starts licking my chin all over.” Cris swiped his tongue against the side of James’s jaw.

 

James jerked back, exclaiming in disgust while the bus exploded in laughter and shouts of disbelief, so loud that the others who were sleeping turned around to see what the commotion was about.

 

But while James cuffed Cris playfully on the arm and wiped his face clean, and Marcelo began his story of his first kiss, Cris could somehow still feel the ghost of James’s breath tingling against his mouth.

 

Cris looked out the window for a brief moment that night, and was stunned at how bright the stars were in the sky, outside Madrid.

 

* * *

 

 

Cris stood at the kitchen counter, and remembered.

 

James before him, Zizou waiting for him.

 

He had to choose.

 

* * *

 

 

There are many possibilities, many universes, but not all of them intersect.

* * *

 

 

Perhaps Cristiano walked up to James, wordless.

 

Perhaps he ran his fingers to brush against James’s hand, slowly up his arm, resting to cup his neck. Perhaps James let him, watching him the whole time. Giving Cris every choice to flee. Still as marble, as if he was taming a wild animal, willing him to trust him.

 

Perhaps Cris rested his hand against James’s neck, feeling the rapid pulse underneath his palm, staring back at James’s eyes. As if trying to test the path underneath his feet, a dark veering from a warm destiny into something beyond the starry night.

 

Perhaps Cris was still, for a very long time.

 

He would have to give up so much. Zidane wouldn’t ever single Cris out, of course, but if James still left Real, Cris would follow. Without a murmur, leave the club of his dreams, his heart, and his victories. Everything he had worked towards. His son would have to move to another school district, leave the house he had always known. Perhaps Cris would even have to retire, earlier than he’d planned.

 

He would have to leave Bernabeau behind. He would have to leave Madrid behind him, sooner or later.

 

Cris weighed all things, and found the scale still tipping, inevitable gravity in a slide of nothing against James.

 

So he leaned in, and kissed James’s on the neck, on that spot he already knew made James stand taller, made him arch. What was once innocent, now not.

 

And James, his hands resting on the small of his back, not in victory, but in promise. With a clever tongue, wresting from Cris sounds softer than dove calls.

 

* * *

 

 

Perhaps Cris told James to forget instead.

 

Perhaps Cris stood in his kitchen for a long time afterwards, long after James had left, and long after the sunlight had left the windows.

 

The cool of the night air streaming through the shutters, was what awakened Cris from his stupor. The cleansing scent of the mint and rosemary in his garden.

 

The hills around his house had not seen brushfires in a long, long time. But mint and rosemary were fire hardy shrubs. What was burned and left into ashes, would grow back again.

 

So Cris washed his face in the sink. Made a quick call to his son and parents in Madeira. Told them he missed them very much, and couldn’t wait to see them again. Laughed at the sound of his son’s voice, telling him about silly games that he won and lost with other boys.

 

Perhaps Cris texted Zizou, last of all, before going to bed. A simple line. Saying only

 

_It was always you._

 

Zizou didn’t text him back that night. But when he saw Cris, the next day, he uncharacteristically pulled him into a hug. Cris only fought for a second, before sighing and letting Zizou’s warmth fill his limbs.

 

* * *

 

 

* * *

 

But perhaps, there are more than two outcomes.

 

* * *

 

 

After all,

 

Cris had a friend. A true friend. A friend who did not always understand him, but had always stood by him. A friend who knew the stitches of his heart better than Cris himself. Who knew how, no matter how precisely Cristiano’s heart was divided and then sewed together, it would never be quite right. Quite as well again.

 

Sergio showed up at Cris’s house around night time, holding a pack of ice cubes to his split lip, as well as a bottle of wine.

 

Cris opened the door, face neutral. “Oh.” He said. “It’s you.”

 

“Yes, it’s me, you capital ass. Let me in, my face hurts.”

 

“It fucking should.” Cris replied, but opened the door wider to let him in.

 

“Cris,” Sergio said, finding two clean glasses in the cupboard and bringing them out to the living room where Cris sat, waiting for Sergio. “I got into two fights today, and it’s all your damn fault. You owe me, like, a car or something.”

 

“No one asked you to fight Bale.” Cris retorted. “You know it’s only a matter of time before he kicks your ass too.”

 

Sergio looked even more sulky, but poured wine into the glasses, and handed Cris one. “He should know better than to trash talk a teammate. I won’t have anyone talk badly of you when I’m in the room.”

 

“Mm.” Cris said, without inflection. “I might deserve it though.”

 

“No, you don’t.” Sergio sighed. “Cris…I just want you to be happy.”

 

“So what do you think, then?” Cris swirled his glass of wine, yet untouched. “What will make me happy, Ramos?”

 

“Well a wise man might say that the choice is best left to you. That only fools would rush in with their outside opinion.”

 

“Well you’re not a wise man.”

 

“No, I’m an idiot with a busted lip. But I’m an idiot who’s your friend. And I think either of them are a bad idea.” Sergio hissed as he reapplied his bag of ice on his face.

 

“If we’re being truthful, I just want to point out that you’re ugly too.”

 

“Oh okay, kick a man while he’s down. I see what you really are.”

 

There was a silence, but it was a comfortable one.

“I said either of them was a bad idea.” Sergio went on. “But I think both of them together…that might work.”

 

Cris scoffed. “Are you serious? That would never work. They’re both so jealous they spit fire at the sound of each other’s name.”

 

“I didn’t say it was going to be easy. Because it won’t be. It’ll be like pulling teeth every inch of the way. You’re going to have a lot of conversations, you’re going to do a lot of convincing, and you’re going to have to rebuild trust. The work will mostly all fall to you.”

 

Sergio went on. “But….I think it’ll be all worth it by the end. Because you know it, and I know it. You’ll never be completely happy with choosing one of them. You’ll always be filled with doubts, always have the past hanging over you two.”

 

Cris was still, but Sergio could tell he was mulling over his words. Finally he replied, taking a sip of his glass. “I don’t know. I don’t know if that’s possible.”

 

Sergio drank his glass whole in a single swallow. “I’ll be with you, Cristiano. I’ll make sure that it’ll be possible.”

 

* * *

 

 

So perhaps one day in the bright days ahead—

 

Cristiano is in his beloved stadium. The one where ecstatic crowds scream his name, chanting victory. Cristiano slides on the grass on his knees. Shouting so loud, but barely hearing the sound of his voice against the thrum of the stadium.

 

Not all games end in victory, but this one did. He feels first Sergio hugging him in tears, cheering, picking him up and staggering around the pitch with him in his grip.

 

Sergio had insisted, the days after their conversation. Had went up to Perez and stated that if James left, Sergio and Cristiano would too. Had convinced people, to somehow, in whatever way possible, to make room for this young athlete. And James took the opportunity, and bloomed into a dazzling player. Someone worthy of Bernabeau.

 

James finds Cristiano next. He runs up to him, sweat streaming from his face, flushed red from a long game, but with a joyous smile on his face that fills Cristiano’s world. He grips Cristiano into a long hug, whispering words of wonder, telling him how amazing, how lovely Cristiano is in triumph. Cristiano bites a kiss on James’s neck, one he is now achingly familiar with, one that makes him arch taller, all the better to show off the marks with.

 

And then Cristiano runs, all the way. Zizou has been patient, waiting his turn. And Cristiano’s moment would not be complete without Zizou. Zizou with the powerful hands, Zizou who protects him, loves him so dearly that he laid down all he knew before, and had tried. Tried, for Cristiano, so that he could be happy.

 

Zizou cradles him, proudly, hands flush against his bare skin. Cristiano might be crying a little, but with Zizou there’s no shame in it.

 

James comes after, to enfold Cristiano and Zidane as well. Then Sergio barrels into them, knocking them all to the ground, to everyone else’s annoyance. Then the whole team simply jumps on top of the pile, and by the time people are peeling off, Cristiano can hardly breathe.

 

It wasn’t the perfect start.

 

And the end is still so far away.

 

But right now, right here.

 

He can’t speak, only hold on.

 

And be held.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The end! 
> 
> I couldn't decide how to end this. There were several endings planned out, some of them quite sad, but none of them felt quite right. So this chapter included a few of them. 
> 
> The song inspo for this chapter ending [https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5IqDR2WjVl8]()


End file.
